


the worst way to say it

by LydiaOfNarnia



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: 'oh god what did i do last night', Hangover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 10:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11461488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/LydiaOfNarnia
Summary: “Did you,” Chuckler starts, then hesitates. His jaw shifts as if he is not sure of his next words, and when he speaks again it is with careful deliberation. “Those things you said last night… did you really mean them?”Oh,thinks Leckie, understanding dawning on him at last. Then he realizes the full reality of the situation – he has no idea what happened last night – and another, far more dismayed oh follows.Oh no. Oh Jesus.Drunk Bob is Sober Bob’s greatest enemy – he has next to no filter, no shame, and inevitably does something Leckie comes to regret in the morning.He doesn't know what he said last night, but it probably wasn't anything good.(written for the Tumblr prompt:"Those things you said last night… did you really mean them?")





	the worst way to say it

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, the characters in this fic are based off of their fictional portrayals from the miniseries The Pacific, and I mean no disrespect to the real-life veterans!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [renelemaires](http://renelemaires.tumblr.com/)!

Until the blinds are suddenly thrown open with all the violence of an exploding sun, Leckie hadn’t even realized he wasn’t alone in the apartment.

Sure, it’s not like he’s been awake, but at least he was conscious enough to know that it’s past noon. The quiet hanging over their rarely-silent flat led him to believe that his roommates were all out for the morning – at class, work, or doing whatever responsible people are supposed to do when they aren’t recovering from the aftereffects of several jäger and tequila cocktails.

“Good morning,” chimes a far-too-perky voice, and Leckie cringes away as the sun blinds him. Hiding in his pillow gives him little refuge. It isn’t long before even that small sanctuary is shattered as he feels Chuckler’s weight settle on the edge of his bed.

“You look terrible!” his friend proclaims; then, in a slightly softer voice, asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Like hell frozen over,” Leckie croaks, and buries his head in his pillow again when his head reverberates with pain.

Whose idea was it to break out the tequila again? Instinct wants to tell him it was Hoosier, but then he remembers that Hoosier can’t stand the stuff. Maybe it was that demented Snafu kid who follows Eugene Sledge around like he’s the next messiah – Leckie doesn’t know where Snafu would get his alcohol, but he wishes he thought to consider it before letting him in their house.

Now he’s pretty sure he’s been poisoned, and the worst part is he has no one to blame but himself. “Oh _god,”_ he hisses, and muffles a groan behind a hand clapped over his mouth. Sitting up takes more effort than it’s worth; he manages to get halfway there before collapsing back down across Chuckler’s knees.

The man staring down at him looks impossibly bright eyed for someone Leckie remembers chugging jäger like water not twelve hours ago. He glares up at Chuckler, who just grins and combs through his curls with one of his broad hands. On any good day Leckie would resent being treated like a cat, but he’s miserable enough today that it almost feels nice.

“Where are the others?” he manages after a moment. More than anything, he’s curious whether any party stragglers still remain in the house, passed out in places they should not be. A foggy image flashes through his mind of Sid Phillips sprawled across the kitchen counter out cold, and he winces in sympathy for the poor person who had to peel him off. At least he was fortunate to make it to his own bed last night – actually, he doesn’t remember _how_ he made it to bed.

“They’re all gone,” Chuckler says, keeping his voice low for Leckie’s benefit. “It’s just you and me. I even kicked Hoosier out, or else I’m sure he would have missed his eleven-thirty lecture.”

Hoosier really can’t afford to miss any more classes; it figures that Chuckler would be the one to step up to the plate.

“Good,” he mutters, and squeezes his eyes shut again. “But I don’t have class today.”

“I know. Just wanted to check on you. I know you hate sleeping in late.”

Once again – typical Chuckler. His friend’s fingers hit a sweet spot on his scalp and Leckie can’t help but keen, leaning into his touch. It would be embarrassing if he had any dignity, but half his face is crusted with his own drool and his bedhead can be considered it’s own lifeform, so he thinks he’s past that. (He also has vague memories of hanging off of Chuckler’s neck last night and proclaiming, _“your hair is like spaghetti! You're not even Italian, Chuckler...”_   while running both hands through his friend's mop of curls. Yeah, dignity has already taken its walk of shame.)

It’s a long moment before he feels ready to even open his eyes. When he does, he is surprised by the sight of Chuckler above him. Dark blue eyes are wide, gaze unusually rapt as he stares down at the man sprawled in his lap. Leckie blinks up at him, feeling hazy. He has the distinct sense that he’s missing something, but he has no clue what – it’s a maddening sensation.

“What?” he finally asks, wincing at the bitter taste in his mouth. If Chuckler is bothered by his nightmarish morning breath, he gives no indication. Instead, he leans just a bit closer, unashamed in his scrutiny.

“Did you,” he starts, then hesitates. His jaw shifts as if he is not sure of his next words, and when he speaks again it is with careful deliberation. “Those things you said last night… did you really mean them?”

 _Oh,_ thinks Leckie, understanding dawning on him at last. Then he realizes the full reality of the situation – he has no idea what happened last night – and another, far more dismayed oh follows. _Oh no. Oh Jesus._ Drunk Bob is Sober Bob’s greatest enemy – he has next to no filter, no shame, and inevitably does something Leckie comes to regret in the morning.

He must have said a lot of things to Chuckler last night, but he can’t remember a single word.

(Except for the hair thing. He’s trying very hard _not_ to think about the hair thing.)

“I…” He doesn’t know. He really doesn’t, and Chuckler looks so hopeful that it’s making him nauseous. What on earth could he have said? Deciding to play it safe, he goes down the line of innocent questioning. “The things I said when?”

“After you vomited the peach daiquiris all over Runner’s shirt and passed out in the shower,” Chuckler says, and Leckie’s brain utters another, much fainter _oh._

“Right. I remember now.” He remembers none of this. “I was… horrifically drunk.”

“I know.” Chuckler’s lips twitch, because this was obvious, but then he’s sober once more. “But did you mean it?”

“I… may have been sincere at the time.”

“But are you now?” Chuckled leans in even closer; for some reason it seems terribly urgent that he ascertains whether or not Leckie meant whatever he said last night. He looks as if his entire day – no, his entire year – is riding on this answer. Leckie doesn’t have the heart to let him down.

Instead, he says what he thinks Chuckler wants to hear and prays that he’s not wrong. “Yes. I am. I meant what I said then as much as I do now.”

And he must have said something right, because Chuckler’s face breaks into a grin – the broadest, brightest, most blinding smile Leckie has ever seen on his face, and this is Chuckler. It causes his aching head to spin. He is barely aware of his friend’s hand coming up to cup his face, because the next thing he knows Chuckler has leaned in the rest of the way and his lips are pressed against his and oh –

In the rush of euphoria that follows, Leckie is assaulted by the echo of a memory, intangible and whispered in the back of his mind. _Strong hands on him, guiding him down the hallway, tucking him into bed; his arms wrapped around broad shoulders, face buried in a sweet-smelling neck; “Why the hell are you like this…it's not fair. **You're** not fair, and I''m pretty sure I'm in love with you..."_

 _Oh,_ thinks Leckie a final time, and gives himself up to the sweet pressure of Chuckler’s lips.

It’s far from ideal, and not the way he’d have preferred to confess his long-standing attraction to one of his closest friends. However, thinks Leckie as Chuckler’s large hand comes up to cup the back of his neck, this isn’t the worst thing in the world. For the first time in his life, his drunk self might have done him a favor.


End file.
